


Everything's Fine

by ArliaDevi



Series: Family Spies [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Pregnancy, domestic spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:38:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4775696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArliaDevi/pseuds/ArliaDevi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Napoleon Solo babysat a heavily pregnant Gaby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything's Fine

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a sort of continuation from my other fic "It's All Yellow", which is a miscarriage/conception fic. Feel free to check that one out if you want any context on this story, or you know, don't. I'm not the boss of you.

 

I

 

She is not happy to see him when she opens the door twenty minutes after Illya’s departed for a mission in Beijing. He’s grinning widely and his eyes glance down at her stomach, which is heavy and swollen and seven months along.

“What are you doing here?” she asks as Solo comes in, leaning down to pat the cat as she comes to brush against his legs.

“I’m here to spend some time with you, Gabs,” he says.

“Who set you up to this?” she hums, closing the door.

“No one,” he laughs a little and they both know he’s lying. “Since you’ve been on maternity leave, I’ve missed seeing you around the office. And I know Illya’s going to be away for a while and-,”

“There it is,” she says. “Illya put you up to this. Listen, I don’t need to be babysat. This baby isn’t coming for another month or two. Really, I’d rather be alone.”

“And you can be alone,” he says, sitting on the couch. “Just with me in the next room.”

She frowns. “I don’t like this – I don’t need looking after.”

“Sure,” he says, but now he’s got the television on and is raiding their cupboards for any hidden liquor.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“You’re not even listening to me,” she protests, her foot stamping on the ground, her hands crossed over her chest. “Solo!”

“Yes, yes, Gaby, I know,” he says and takes a box of crackers he’s found, opens them and sits by the television. “Come put your feet up, must be exhausting stamping them around all day.”

She knows Solo won’t leave. He knows she knows he won’t leave. Really, she doesn’t have much of a choice here. He won’t leave, not unless he wants to be flayed by a sharp Russian blade and put on his buildings television aerial for the tristate area to see. And she thinks he probably really enjoys it too, teasing her like this.

“I’m going to have a bath. Then I’m going to the supermarket. Don’t suppose you want to join me?” she drawls, heading into the bedroom to grab her towel.

“Sounds delightful,” he grins. “We can pick up a few drinks while we’re there.”

“Uh-uh,” she says, turning the faucet of the bath on. “If I can’t drink, you can’t. Those are the rules in the Teller/Kuryakin house.”

There’s silence from Solo then, but he’s not left. He appears leaning against the door of the bathroom.

“Well, see that’s not at all fair,” he counters.

“These are the rules, very heavily regulated rules by a KGB agent, you see. There’s very little wiggle room,” she smiles and then she closes the door to the bathroom in his face.

 

She makes him do the most banal things with her. After her bath, she makes him rub her feet with her special lavender cream because they’re aching and cracked and sore. Then he puts on her compression socks, so her ankles don’t swell up, and then he puts on her shoes and helps her up. She grins through it all, because she knows that Solo can’t say no, can’t deny her these small things, but knows he knows she’s testing him. Pushing him to the edge. Still, he rubs her feet for ten minutes and then wipes the rest of the cream on a tea towel and acts like he’s perfectly happy.

At the grocers, he pushes the trolley around. She’s never imagined him doing anything so domestic, though she’s seen him cook in that ridiculous apron many times. Still, the idea of Solo, a buff all-American secret agent trying to decide between cereals makes her giggle.

They don’t have to decide between cereals though. They have a small squabble over what to eat for dinner, because he’s apparently staying and sleeping on the couch and no he doesn’t have to go to work the next day Gaby and yes he would love to spend his days off with her, why wouldn’t he? And the whole conversation just leaves Gaby fed up and frustrated. So she pays for her groceries and they go home, where she locks herself in her room for a nap and doesn’t emerge until late in the afternoon.

Solo is reading a book on the lounge, his feet hanging across the arm and dangling. Dev is cuddled up beside him, the smoocher that she is. _More like traitor._

“Have a good sleep?” he asks, too chirpy for her liking.

“The baby was moving. Barely slept,” she grumbles. She potters around the kitchen, not really knowing what she’s looking for, until Napoleon takes a pan from where they’re suspended from the roof and turns on the stove.

“I’ll cook,” he says. “Take a load off, Gabs.”

“Fine,” she seethes and storms away.

Two days later, Illya returns home. Solo slinks out the door.

“How’d it all go, Peril? You weren’t gone long.”

“They were cleaning up when I got there,” he replies. “And Gaby?”

Solo laughs then, a small sort of wheezing sound Illya has never heard him make before. “Good luck with that.”

Illya doesn’t understand what Solo means until he enters his house and is greeted by his loving wife with an accusing screech.

 

 

II

“You’re back,” Gaby mutters as Solo enters her house, two weeks since Illya got back from China and on the morning he’s supposed to be boarding a plane to London.

“I’m back,” he confirms. “How… um, how are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she replies bitingly. “I’m going to have a shower.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” he calls in a sweet sing-song voice after her. Gaby huffs and slams the door behind her.

She doesn’t need anything, though. Sure, she needs lots of things, like her husband to be here to support her through the birth of their child and to go to the classes he’d promised to go to, but since has only attended one. Things she doesn’t need are: Solo inching on her personal space, Solo babying her, Solo breathing too loudly.

Gaby dresses and slips on her shoes as she comes back into the kitchen where Solo is fixing himself a sandwich and has some morning radio show blaring.

“I am going out,” she says. “I’ll be back after lunch.”

“Wait, wait,” says Solo, putting down his butter knife. “Exactly where are you going, missy?”

Gaby supresses the urge to roll her eyes.

“A birthing class, if you must know. If it’s escaped your attention, I may have to do it soon, so I want to know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Solo looks at her stomach, then back to her face.

“I should come too.”

“No, you should not.”

“Why?” says Solo. “We both know why I’m here. I don’t have to spell it out, do I?”

“Fine,” Gaby grits. “Come with me. But you’ll just be watching. No actual involvement.”

“I’m very adept at watching,” he says as she picks up her handbag. Somehow it comes off a little dirty, though Gaby’s not too sure as to how. He punches the button to the elevator. “After you.”

 

When they get to the birthing class, there are more people – more couples – than Gaby remembered. And when the husbands, loving and careful and maybe a little afraid, are instructed to touch their wives, let them lean back and support them, Gaby is silently thankful to find Solo there. His hands, a little tender and a lot more nervous than the other husbands, are a solid reassurance.

“Just relax,” he hums. “You’re doing great, you know.”

“Thanks,” she grits.

She practices her breathing, they go through what will happen when the time comes. She makes a decision on pain medication. She tries not to think about the possibility of them cutting the baby out of her when the midwife begins to talk casually about the risk of caesareans.

When they get home two hours later, Solo cooks them both dinner. Gaby sits on the dining table, silent.

“Thinking, Gabs?” he asks over the pot of mussels.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t probe any further, nor does she give any insight into her mind. But when she sighs and puts up her sore, swollen feet after dinner, he draws her a warm foot bath and massages them while they watch the 7:30 episode of Get Smart.

“I’ve seen this one,” she smiles as Solo, on his knees in front of her, rubs dutifully. “It’s Illya’s favourite.”

Solo smiles. “Is it now?”

Then she gasps and presses her hand to her stomach. Then she reaches forward to grab at Solo’s hand and presses it just near her navel. He waits with baited breath and then, there it is. A fluttering under his hand. And then stronger, a kick, a roll, and Solo knows he’s smiling, laughing, and the look of amazed disbelief on his face because he’s never felt anything like this before and not for the first time, considers just how great the woman in front of him is, how strong and capable and everything she is, even when she sometimes drives him up the wall, both figuratively and on one occasion, literally.   


III

Illya desires to have words before he leaves for his next mission on the Texan border. On the August afternoon, she is tired, fed-up, irritable, and not at all happy her husband is leaving.

Solo steps out onto the terrace.

“Gaby is not happy,” he says lowly.

“Couldn’t tell,” he quips back. The Russian takes a deep breath in and Solo knows he isn’t messing around.

“She could have the baby at any time. I will try to be quick… but-,”

And then he knows what Illya is referring to.

“I would like you to be there when she has the baby. If I cannot.”

His response is instant, “Of course.”

“And,” then Illya pauses, looks like he’s trying to swallow a thickness, purses his lips and says, “We would like you to become the child’s uncle. The child’s guardian. If something happens to us.”

His response is a little slower, but still, “Of course.”

And then Illya hugs him, tightly, deeply, the kind of hug he’s never received before from anyone ever – not even a woman. It’s not a pat on the shoulder, or a quick parting hug, it’s a life-depending, grateful, emotional embrace and he finds himself hugging Illya back, squeezing his shoulders, assuring him everything will be fine.

“I will be keeping track of you,” he says in parting, then he kisses Gaby and rubs her stomach and leaves.

Gaby is hysterical.

For most of the afternoon, he lets her sit and watch television. When it drags on into the evening, and she is still weeping softly, he orders home delivery Chinese and they sit, side-by-side and eat it.

“I’m sorry I’m like this,” she sniffs over her sweet and sour pork. “It’s the pregnancy talking. Not me. I understand it’s his job. Thanks for putting up with me, Napoleon. I appreciate it.”

He wants to reply with a sharp quip or maybe a witty comeback, but there’s nothing on the tip of his tongue. So instead, he takes Gaby’s hand and squeezes it and says, “It’s fine.” And then, “Illya is a lucky guy.”

She smiles and rubs her stomach. “Making you want to stop your illustrious days of crime and settle down?”

“Something like that,” he replies.

“You’d have to get rid of your wet bar. And fence in the pool,” she says, finishing off her dinner. She looks to Solo’s half-finished noodle dish, neglected on the magazine table. “Are you going to eat that?”

He gives it to her with a laugh.

 

IV

The Texan mission, a week-long stakeout, has rolled into the end of August, a three week surveillance op, and now it’s the second of September, and Gaby cries almost every morning when she gets up, rubbing oil over her stretched skin.

The baby moves less now. A lot less. It’s almost time, she says. She’s very big, too big to see her feet (Napoleon painted her toes lavender two days ago because she was worried they looked terrible), too big to walk for too long, too big to do anything but wait and worry and wait a little more.

On the second of September, Solo cooks her breakfast – eggs. There’s no orange juice since the smell of it makes her sick. There’s no bacon. It’s just eggs and unbuttered toast with some pepper and then Gaby announces she’s so insanely tired from eating, she goes to sit out on the terrace, where the autumn day is still warm and the roses are in bloom.

Solo joins her with a cup of coffee a moment later. Gaby is cradling a rose in her hand, as yellow as the sun, rubbing her fingers over its velveteen petals. The cat, Dev, joins them for a while, lolling around in the sun.

“If something happens, you’ll come with me to the hospital, right?” she says suddenly, looking up to where he’s taking a sip of coffee.

He swallows and chuckles a little. “What do you think I’m really doing here, Gaby? You think I read all those birthing books just for fun? Of course, you silly woman.”

She smiles and lets the petal rest at the bottom of the rose bush, in the soil, where it will break down again.

Illya calls that afternoon from his hotel and she cries on the phone for almost twenty minutes. Solo stays again that night, as he has done for the last eighteen days. He sleeps in the couch again since the other room has a bassinette and crib set up, and the couch isn’t that uncomfortable anyway.

At five, Gaby wakes him up. Her clothes are soiled with fluid, the bed too.

“My water’s broken,” she says in a hushed whisper, though they’re both very awake. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Contractions?” he yawns, rubbing his eyes. She shakes her head.

“Illya’s not here,” she says.

“It’s all right, we’re going to go to the hospital, and I’ll call him on his hotel phone from there. Let’s get you to the hospital and get you checked out.”

“We need to feed Dev,” she protests.

Solo huffs. “Of course.”

He helps Gaby change her clothes, which are stained and soiled and wet. He helps her put on her shoes, little slip on flats, and gathers the things she needs for the hospital. It’s five-thirty when they hail a cab and begin towards the hospital, and five-thirty-three when Gaby, in the back seat of the cab, feels her first contraction. She swears under her breath and grabs Solo’s hand and squeezes while the American leans forward and asks the driver to go faster, damn it.  
  
When they get to the hospital, they’re given a suite. No expense is spared by U.N.C.L.E.’s maternity benefits, and while she’s being looked over by the doctors, Solo calls Illya.

“She’s going to have the baby. Tonight. I know. Can’t you get back here?” The doctor passes him on his way out of examination. Solo taps him on the shoulder. “Doc, how long do you think?”

“Very, very, early, I would say at least another twelve hours. She’s only two centimetres dilated.”

“Hear that?” he says into the phone. “You have twelve hours to get back to New York or I’m naming this baby Napoleon Teller-Kuryakin.”

Illya hangs up.

 

V  
  


Gaby is nervous. And she is in pain. And she’s hungry and on a strict diet of ice-chips. Solo is trying to ease the pain and distract her, but it was a lot easier in his mind, and when he’d planned it out step-by-step, he’d be in the waiting room and be the one consoling a nervous Russian man.

“Do you have names?” he asks, wiping the sweat from her forehead.

Gaby nods.

“Are any of them Napoleon?”

“None,” she laughs gently. “Napoleon?”

“Yes.”

“I want to go to sleep now. Can you get out?”

He laughs gently and gets up. “Sure.”

There’s a nurse outside, Gaby’s nurse, a young blonde thing with legs for miles and – Solo shakes his head. There’s certainly a time and place.

“Hey,” he says, approaching her. The nurse – Louise – is looking over some paperwork. “I’m with room 21, Gaby Kuryakin. Listen, I’m not the husband-,” of course he cleared that up first, Solo cursed. “Gaby’s husband is interstate on work – he might not make it back. What’s the policy on godparents being in the delivery room when you know the time comes?”

“If that is what the patient wants, it’s no problem,” she replied. “I’ll just check with Mrs. Kuryakin and inform the doctor.”

Between six a.m and nine-thirty on the 3rd, Gaby sleeps. When she wakes up, she’s checked and is at five centimetres.

“It may all come a little quicker now,” says the doctor. But Illya still isn’t here, and might not be here, so Solo takes a deep breath and squeezes Gaby’s hand.

“You’re very good about all this,” she comments sleepily.

At eleven-thirty, she is seven centimetres and the contractions are coming faster, lasting longer, making her squirm and groan and huff. Solo guides her through them, makes sure she remembers how to breathe properly, and shuts up when she tells them to.

At one in the afternoon, she is nine centimetres dilated and the baby is in the right position and everything is looking good, Mrs. Kuryakin, except for the fact that her husband isn’t here and she’s regretting the decision not to have an epidural.

“Oh thank god you’re here,” says Napoleon suddenly when a dazed, panting and sweaty Russian bursts through the door of their suite.

“Illya!” Gaby cries as he rushes to her. “You made it. Oh god, I’m so happy.”

He hugs her and pushes the hair from her eyes. “I would not miss this.” And then he kisses her gently, wiping the tears away from her cheeks and fussing over her blanket and pillows.

“I’ll just be outside, then,” Napoleon says. “Good luck you two.”

But they aren’t listening to him so Napoleon exits quietly. On the way out, he finds Louise and smiles.

“My services weren’t needed after all,” he says. “Coffee?”

 

  VI

At three-oh-three, their son is born. He comes into the world covered in blood and muck, crying softly, and at healthy weight. Gaby slumps against the pillows as they place him on her chest. He’s only little, and a little cold, but he’s beautiful. She feels Illya kiss her cheek, but all she can look at is the tangle of arms and legs and toes and little eyelashes that is her baby. Her boy.

Illya cuts the cord nervously. His hands are shaking as they hold the scissors, not unlike the kind he used to once disarm a bomb in China. Back then, he’d been confident, strong, and precise. Now he hesitates before severing the connection, but he does.

Gaby relaxes a little as they take the baby away to clean and monitor. The doctor works on stitching her up and the placenta comes easily. And Illya is still there, saying how well of a job she did and how perfect their baby is. And how perfect she is. And that they’re a family now.

She smiles. She’s tired. But not as sore as she thought she would be. And she’s a little hungry.

“You should go and tell Napoleon,” she croaks.

“Later,” he hums, running his thumb over her knuckles.

He holds the baby when they bring him back and say he’s perfectly healthy, but of course, Illya knew that already. Already knew he was perfect and fine and everything they’ve ever wanted. He hushes his tiny cries before letting Gaby give him the first feed, watching and in disbelief something like this could be his.

“I am truly blessed,” he says gently, watching his son latch and his mouth work and hearing Gaby’s contented sigh as she slips into the role of mother so effortlessly.

“Knock-knock,” comes a call from the door. It’s Napoleon, holding a bunch of obnoxious balloons and some flowers and some food. Illya’s stomach growls. “Sorry, I just couldn’t wait. I can come back.”

“No, it’s fine Solo,” ushers Gaby. “Come in, he’s just having his first meal.”

“A boy?” he grins, setting everything down on the table and rushing over. “Oh, isn’t he swell?”

“I’m surrounded by my boys,” Gaby grins. “His name is Isaak. Isaak Theo Kuryakin.”

The afternoon sun filters through the room. In the days following, they’re visited by Waverly, from their friends and colleagues at the agency, and then again from Napoleon. Two days after Isaak’s birth, they are allowed to go home and they do so carefully, so worried about breaking something so small and delicate.

Napoleon is able to stay away for a week before coming over, but he does bring a family sized lasagne and some groceries with them, and more nappies, so he’s welcomed warmly.

And when Isaak, sweet and milk-drunk, falls asleep in his uncle’s arms and Illya has sneaked a kiss or two from Gaby in the darkened corner of a hallway, Solo asks, “So the name? What does it mean?”

“Theo was my father’s name,” said Gaby, lowering herself into the lounge gently. “And Isaak. Well, Illya chose Isaak.”

“It means to laugh. All the time. And freely,” he replies from where he is pouring two glasses of wine.

Truthfully, Solo has never heard Illya laugh. He’s heard small chuckles, a huff of a laugh, he’s heard wit and sarcasm and heard him make Gaby laugh countless times. But he’s never heard his friend, his best friend, laugh heartfully, carelessly, happily.

“Sounds perfect,” he says as Illya passes him a glass of wine and settles down next to Gaby with his own. She hums as she leans into him, a contented happy laugh. And in his arms, the baby gurgles, blows bubbles with his lips and saliva before he nestles into his uncle’s arms.

“That baby,” says Illya. “Really tarnishes your man whore image, Cowboy.” 

 


End file.
